She came into my palace at half past Matins. Tall, blonde, with a figure like sin--it could make your soul burn for a thousand years, unless it was dealt with in a one-on-one absolution with a priest. Preferably after a few martinis.

Thank God I'm not a catholic.

"I'm looking for the Most Reverend Gordon Frost," she said. Her voice was husky, hungry, and I found myself rising for hymn 345. Ave Maria.

"For you, presiding."

"Mister Frost, I'm here for my father. This is an urgent matter of ecclesiastical writ."

"I can help you. I'm a bishop."